


Control

by roughian



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughian/pseuds/roughian
Summary: Yara's gaze lingered on the Targaryen's face. "Do you know that women in brothels have fashioned themselves to look just like you, to please the vagrants that pass through the ale houses?" She watched as Daenerys' gaze hardened, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Though none of them approach your beauty. Even good and drunk. No one can compare."





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> My first Ao3 post, and foray with Daenerys and Yara. Beta'd by LJ User: foreverleyton. Please enjoy! One Shot Femslash PWP.

Daenerys realized she had been here for most of the evening, surveying the map of the seas that had been carefully marked up by Tyrion just hours ago, before he had ventured off to tell tales with the other seamen aboard. She studied his notes, and idly played with the compass her Hand had used, the cool metal touch a welcome relief to the swamping heat below deck. She shifted uncomfortably, rolling her neck, the moisture in the air settling into her bones. The sweet Volantis red in her chalice wasn’t helping matters, only flushing her cheeks and bringing about the drowsiness she fought so hard.

 

She heard the door open and the familiar sound of footfall descending the ladder, assuming by the soft gait it would be Missandei, dutifully checking up on her, or even Grey Worm, protective as he always had been, heightened now by the journey they had embarked on some weeks ago.

  
“I thought I might find you down here,” Yara Greyjoy smiled, appearing as stealthily as a ship gliding through placid waters. “The dragon in her cave.”  
  
Daenerys felt her mouth pull into a smirk, surveying the woman in front of her. The Greyjoy’s hair had permanently settled into waves due to the constant humidity in the sea air. It did little to soften her, though. Always with the breastplate, always with the bravado. Yara had joined their vessel after a storm had nearly blown them all off course at the beginning of the journey, insistent she stay right beside Daenerys to ensure the rest of the time sailing went off well.

 

Yara strolled over to the table, steps timed perfectly with the swinging of the ship so that her stride remained undisturbed. Ironborn, through and through. Daenerys had watched men three times Yara’s size heaving their guts over the starboard side of the ship for days, and here this one strode, confidently, assuredly. It was another element of comfort altogether, the confident leading of another person, someone Daenerys felt safe in sharing the captaining of this voyage, so to speak.

 

“Do you ever sleep?” Daenerys asked, settling the compass back next to the map.

 

“Sometimes,” Yara answered honestly. “But never well.”

 

“The sea did that to you?” the silver-tressed woman implored.

 

“My life did that to me,” Yara resigned, but with a smile, pulling at the cask hanging from her side. She brought it to her mouth, sipping it. “But enough, what are you doing down here?”

 

“I like to know all facets of a journey. It comes most, I assume, from never knowing much about where I was being swept off. Besides, here we have what seems like nothing but time,” Daenerys paused, feeling the woman out. She was not one for confiding in strangers for the most part, but the last few weeks in tight quarters had proven Yara a worthy ear to bend. A companion, even.

 

“We have that in common, my queen,” Yara bowed her head, brows knitting as she approached the table, leaning over to examine the map. “I see Tyrion has ignored all of the things I have said to him,” she ran a finger over one of the coordinates he had scrawled in a section of the map around the Bay of Dragons.

 

“I do wish you two would be more amiable.”

 

Yara barked out a laugh. “A Lannister and a Greyjoy, your grace, are not exactly best of kin. We are both far too opinionated. He, as your Hand, likely sees me as a threat.”

 

“Should he?” Daenerys asked, equal parts curious and coy.

  
An easy chuckle fell from the brunette and she sat on the edge of the table, studying Daenerys’ face. “Yes, of course. I could fulfill his duties better.”

 

Daenerys groaned, shaking her head, that same smirk tugging at her features again. “You two are a bit like quarrelling children.”

 

Yara held a hand over her heart, tone mirthful. “Your words are like daggers, your grace. I cannot sustain them.”

 

“I am sure you have sustained a lot worse, Yara Greyjoy.”  


The brunette straightened her back, an easy smile splaying over usually stoic features. “I enjoy the way my name sounds coming from your mouth. It is pleasing.”

 

Daenerys felt her eyes hood slightly, and rationalized that it was the wine that had done it, and not the way the tone had hit her, the way it made her feel much warmer than she had been even in the underbelly of the ship.

 

“Thank you,” Daenerys replied finally, unsure what else could be said.

 

Yara’s gaze lingered on the Targaryen’s face. “Do you know that women in brothels have fashioned themselves to look just like you, to please the vagrants that pass through the ale houses?” She watched as Daenerys’ gaze hardened, her eyes narrowing to slits. “Though none of them approach your beauty. Even good and drunk. No one can compare.”

 

Relaxing her shoulders, the Targaryen laughed again, becoming accustomed to these statements from the other woman. “Yara, you are as silver-tongued as I have heard you’d be. It is a surprise that your brother is so meek.”  
  
“He wasn’t always,” the Greyjoy replied, deflating.

 

Daenerys studied a sadness pass through those eyes; so dark they looked almost black in this light. “I’m sorry,” she mustered cordiality, as she had heard tell that he was not unlike her Unsullied. “For whatever he has gone through.”

 

“How queenly of you,” Yara enunciated, bowing a bit. She held out her cask. “M’lady?”

 

Daenerys sat up, eyeing the nearly empty chalice beside her. She knew that Yara had seen it too. She decided to forgo the last sip for the opportunity to drink from the cask.  
  
“All right,” she smiled. “Let’s try this Ironborn swill.”  
  
Yara laughed again, shaking her head in a measure of faux-indignation. “Swill!”

 

Holding the cask from the bottom, Daenerys tipped it into her mouth. The wine was not as sweet as what she had been drinking, and it came as a shock at first, but not an altogether unpleasant one. “Not bad,” she decided. “But strong.”

 

“That’s the way I like it. I just saw Tyrion above deck, actually. He coughed on the wine like a small girl taking her first taste,” the taller woman spoke, getting back onto her feet, rounding behind Daenerys to look at the map in full view. She leaned over, taking hold of the compass, measuring, mouthing things to herself as she tapped against Tyrion’s notes with the tool.

 

The heat Daenerys felt from the other woman made the room all the more stifling. She could feel the coolness of the plate Yara wore pressing against her shoulder and shifted to allow the woman more room.

 

The pair made eye contact.

 

“My apologies, your grace,” Yara said as she moved over to the side, removing the contact between them. “I believe he isn’t all wrong on these, but some of these coordinates are clearly wine soaked.” She straightened, stepping backward, but not before placing a fingertip on one of Daenerys’ intricate braids, pulled up and off of her neck in a nest of beautifully woven locks. “I wouldn’t even begin to know how to do this.”

 

“It’s simple,” Daenerys replied, ignoring the sensation the touch had caused. “I could do it for you, if you’d like.”  
  
Yara put a hand to her own head, attempting to smooth down the unruliness the sea had caused, mulling it over. The discomfort crossed her features as quickly as her words. “I don’t think it would suit me the way that it suits you, your grace.”

 

“That’s very kind,” the Targaryen replied with another cordiality, so easily flowing from her lips. She wished, then, she had something different to say. Something that would explain the very real notion that the two of them did not grow up in such different circumstances. In truth, Daenerys hadn’t touched a hair on her own head in quite some time; there was always someone to do it for her. She felt shame flee through her at the thought.

 

“I suppose I’ve never really had a reason to fuss with my hair,” Yara continued, pacing a bit in front of the desk. “Perhaps a name day? Perhaps I’m mis-remembering.”

 

Daenerys lifted an eyebrow. “Never a caller in the Iron Islands?”

 

“I believe you’ve answered your own question. Besides, the callers I would have chosen, would not be ones brought about in a public setting. My father would have beat me bald.”

 

“I assume because you prefer the company of women?” Daenerys asked, boldly, reaching for the glass that was almost empty, and draining it completely, needing a place to cast her gaze.

 

“Aye,” Yara nodded, demanding Daenerys meet her eye.

 

“I had guessed as much.”

 

The brunette smirked, taking another drag of her cask and pulling up the other chair to sit on, across from the fair-haired woman. “That is not a kind statement, your grace.”

 

“I meant it with kindness,” she defended. “I have enjoyed the company of women from time to time.”

 

“I find that very hard to believe,” Yara challenged, scoffing. “There was a man practically pissing his trousers watching you leave Mereen.”

 

“Yes, a good man, too.” Daenerys thought fondly of Daario for a moment. “Must one be shackled to one or the other?”

 

Yara leaned over, elbows anchored at the tops of her thighs, engaging Daenerys fully. “And do you prefer one over the other? To be shackled to, I mean.”

 

“You are crass,” Daenerys laughed, feeling a blush creep into her cheeks. Truth be told, she enjoyed the crassness. “I think that there are many answers to that question.”

 

“I agree, I have also enjoyed the company of men, but much prefer women,” Yara drank from her cask again. “There is a softness about a woman, something…”

 

“Elemental,” Daenerys supplied. “Something you just sort of… understand.”

 

Yara’s eyes darkened for a moment as she glanced at Daenerys. The Targaryen knew this look well, man or woman. It was one of desire.

 

“Now I’ve gotten lost in images in my head, your grace. Forgive me.”  


“Is that so? Do you care to share?”  
  
“They are crass, as you say.”

 

Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the fact that Daenerys was intrigued by this, but she leaned forward, studying Yara. She was not soft and delicate like Missandei, or kissed by the sun like the Dothraki she had kept so close at hand. Instead, Yara had been through hell, like a figurehead at the bow of a ship. But she was alluring to the fairer woman. There was such undeniable strength there. Unconventional beauty; her favorite kind.

 

“Go on…”

 

Yara’s eyebrows raised in surprise as she handed her counterpart the cask again, out of instinct. The other woman drank deeply in an attempt to stifle her words from spewing forth with wild abandon, handing the cask back, trying not to cough from such an effort. She managed to keep her composure, enjoying the way Yara studied her as she did.

 

“You know, I have heard your infamy throughout the seven kingdoms. No matter where I was, I heard about Daenerys Stormborn, first of her name. I had figured it was as it always was, men exaggerating out of fear. But when I met you,” the brunette paused, sipping her wine until she had drained the pouch altogether. “I understood.”

 

“You did? And why?” Daenerys was baiting this woman, and she knew it, but this was thrilling in its own right, causing her heart to slosh in her chest, beating so rapidly she tried to welcome deeper breathing. She could feel Yara’s scrutiny throughout her entire body.

 

“My knees knocked against each other out of nerves. I am not used to that, your grace. I was fine until I was brought into your throne room. You are so sleight, but so powerful. You lived up to your lore, and then some. I had been so hard pressed on getting to you that when I finally did, I was unsure of what to expect. But certainly I wasn’t expecting the presence you have.”

  
After a few seconds of pause, the silver-haired woman nodded her head. “I have felt the same stirring, truthfully. The moment you stepped into my court, your strength was palpable.”

 

The pair sat in silence for a moment, eyeing each other. Yara focused on the violet eyes before her and Daenerys met the look unabashedly. From her seat at the table, Daenerys got to her feet, the sway of the ship surprising to her. She steadied herself on the table, waving Yara off, who had launched from her own seat to aid her. Striding to where the other woman sat, Daenerys took an inhale through her nose, coming up behind Yara, one hand splaying out on her shoulder as she pushed firmly. “Sit.”

 

Yara complied, so quickly she almost did not believe herself.

 

“I learned how to make love from a woman’s touch,” the Targaryen explained. “I learned that tenderness did not always apply with the Dothraki.”

 

“A-aye,” Yara stammered, frozen to her seat, unable to turn comfortably to look at the other woman.

 

Daenerys took pleasure in the stammer, in the obvious fogging of the Greyjoy’s senses. From the moment she had met her, she’d noticed that Yara was careful with her words. That when she did speak, it was well planned and the perfect mixture of charm and poignancy. And now the woman could manage nothing more than unintelligible sounds.

 

The Targaryen slid her hand from Yara’s shoulder, to her back, where the breastplate met in thick knots of leather underneath iron clasps. Her fingertips stopped on the very first one at the top, prying the leather apart and unclasping the fastening. Yara’s back straightened, as she reached behind herself with her left hand, attempting to work the one on the bottom open.

 

Gently, Daenerys ushered the brunettes’ hand away, so that she could do it on her own. “What I’ve learned from both encounters,” Daenerys popped open another clasp. “All encounters, really, is that it’s usually worth the wait.”

 

Yara hummed a laugh at the fairer woman’s boldness, eyes fluttering to a close as she allowed the woman to work on the rest of her clasps, until the breastplate had been undone. Expertly, Daenerys removed and settled it near the map, while Yara breathed an unconscious sigh of relief, the fabric of her tunic much more forgiving than the plate. Soon, where metal had once encased, Daenerys rubbed a deceptively strong hand, working into Yara’s shoulders, rubbing at the tensely knotted muscles there.

 

“Your grace,” Yara groaned as she tilted her head to the side. “That is better than Dornish wom--” she started, then remembered her company, and in turn her manners. “Wine,” she finished.

 

The Targaryen smiled, fingertips kneading into Yara’s shoulders. She was so strong, and the knowledge of that thrilled Daenerys for the umpteenth time this evening. She continued like this, watching as those shoulders she worked slumped forward in relaxation. Yara’s brow was no longer knitted in constant concentration as she relaxed fully into the touch. The Greyjoy looked tranquil like this, a sight that Daenerys had not seen before this interlude. She imagined then a better time for Yara, hoping she spent some of her youth like this, but knowing that probably was not the case. Women like this did not grow up with laughter, and bows. They grew up with experience.

 

Daenerys stilled her hands, walking around to face Yara, getting as close to her as she could while standing. Those brown eyes opened, staring up at their violet counterparts. An easy smile spread across Daenerys’ face, met by Yara’s. Wordlessly, the Greyjoy reached out, hands taking the smaller ones before her. The pair stayed like this for a moment, and Daenerys felt her breathing quicken. Yara knew this look of desire, and tugged gently on her hold, beckoning the standing woman closer. Slipping on top of Yara’s lap, Daenerys let her legs drape on either side of her companion in an easy straddle, hands moving to the shoulders she had just worked with her touch. They came up to the skin of Yara’s neck, raking through the back of her hair, eyes never leaving the ones staring so intently up at her.

 

Yara’s hands fell to the Targaryen’s waist, almost guilty at how rough and knicked they looked in comparison to the fabric: a blue gray, not unlike the ocean at daybreak. She dragged her thumbs along the lithe curvature there, feeling as shy as she had the first time she had ever done this with a woman. It was unlike her, to hold back with a woman in her lap, to not take her there and now. Unconsciously, she let her fingertips slide behind those hips, playing at the small of the Daenerys’ back through the cloth, wanting her closer.

 

Daenerys stopped herself centimeters from the mouth in front of her, the spiced smell of wine mingling with their breath. She brought forth one of her thumbs, sliding it along Yara’s lower lip, before cupping her face with that same hand. Teasingly, she leaned in, stopping close enough to feel Yara’s breathing still, then exhale in a sound that was not unlike longing.

 

“This is very sweet torture,” whispered the other woman.

 

Daenerys took a moment to appreciate the earnestness of the woman’s voice. “Yes,” she agreed before scooting her hips closer, arms winding around Yara’s shoulders, pressing her lips against the other pair. Softly at first, enjoying the way Yara groaned in relief into her mouth.

 

The Greyjoy’s hands drew paths along lines of fabric, soft and fitting for a queen. She could feel her own hands tremble, no longer out of nerves, but of need. As the woman on top of her deepened the kiss, Yara’s grip moved lower, to the outside of strong thighs, then that sumptuous backside, kneading the flesh there through the dress. At that, Yara felt Daenerys grow more aggressive; a bite at her lower lip, a hand tugging through her hair. This was the pace she was used to with other women. Fast. And while with those women in question, it felt the only fitting thing, now a slow burning display was more tantalizing to Yara.

 

Daenerys felt her own arousal, that insistent throbbing between parted thighs, so vulnerable to Yara’s touch. She had expected this woman to be rough and tumble, but was pleasantly surprised with her respectful gentleness. She knew that it had an expiry, however, as she felt Yara’s hands slip from the outside of her dress to under it, along the outside of her thighs, fingertips bringing with them gooseflesh as they dragged from her knees to her hips. The Targaryen pulled back at that, eyes meeting those beneath her, pupils wide, surveying the way Yara’s chest rose and fell quickly with her breath.

 

“Do you like what you feel?” Daenerys asked.

 

“You are intoxicating,” Yara replied after a moment of tracing as far down Daenerys’ leg as she could go, voice barely above a murmur, arousal evident in her tone.

 

Daenerys felt her cheeks flush with heat. Her fingertips idly toyed with the soft hair at the nape of Yara’s neck. “I think you'll like all of what you continue to feel, Yara Greyjoy.”

 

Those hands slid further along the legs draped in fabric, until they reached the apex, stopping just shy of palpable heat. “Do you think that, my queen?” she grinned again, though this time it was darker, causing a shudder through Daenerys’ body that she was not expecting, given the heat.

 

“I know that,” the Targaryen challenged.

 

“Let’s see…” Yara teased, fingertips raking up the delicate skin of Daenerys’ inner thigh, stopping shy of her sex, toying along the fragile skin nearby. “Is this where you’d like me to try?”

 

“Higher,” Daenerys whispered, hips shifting forward with an impatience that immediately delighted Yara. She felt like they were on an equal playing field, but the Targaryen was at a disadvantage, for she couldn’t feel what she was doing to Yara, yet.

 

Dutifully, Yara’s fingertips climbed to hip bones again, thumbs pressing hard outlines into them as she pulled Daenerys closer to her, gentleness vanishing swiftly. “Here, your grace?”

 

“Yara,” Daenerys chided. “Come now,” She gasped as Yara’s hands slid to her ass again, gripping at the flesh there.

 

“Come now? Neigh, m’lady, not quite time for that,” she teased, taking the opportunity for the easy joke. “Tell me what you’d like.”

 

“I’d like you to touch me properly...” Daenerys grasped hard at the hair her fingertips had been playing in, tilting Yara’s face up. “That’s a command.”

 

Yara breathed raggedly at the aggression, enjoying it all the while. “And what happens if I don’t obey, your grace? Shall you banish me?”

 

“I don’t believe you’d like to find out,” Daenerys replied, with great effort to keep her voice even. Failing as Yara’s fingers dragged the long path to her sex, finally stopping, just grazing through the wetness in plenty, there.

 

“Ah, my queen, I don’t believe you’d like to banish me at all,” Yara teased. “What would we do with you in this state?” she continued, pulling her hand free of its prior positioning, bringing her fingertips between them, slick with arousal.

 

Daenerys felt a wave of need surge through her, even more so at the loss of contact. She wrapped her hand around Yara’s wrist, bringing the fingers into her mouth, tasting herself while the Greyjoy watched.

 

Yara bit her lip, allowing Daenerys to continue this game. It was incredibly enticing, and what self-restraint she had was beginning to unravel, quickly. Teeth scraped her digits, as the tip of Daenerys tongue flitted around in focus on the sensitivity.

 

“Do you taste good, m’lady?” Yara asked, trying to keep those same fingers from shaking as she watched Daenerys’ eyes. Perhaps it was the wine, and the headiness of the sight, but she could have sworn those once violet irises had turned so dark a purple they appeared almost black.

 

Without replying verbally, Daenerys tugged the fingers from her mouth, pulling Yara’s mouth roughly toward her and drowning the moan that followed. Her tongue fought for dominance in Yara’s mouth as she rolled her hips forward. She felt Yara grasp at the back of her neck, fingers digging into the braids that had been so patiently rolled into her hair.

 

“You taste as sweet as I knew you would,” Yara panted as she pulled away. “So sweet,” she slid her hands under Daenerys’ thighs, picking her up in one fluid motion, securing the shorter woman’s legs around her waist. “That I must have a better taste.”

 

Daenerys soon realized Yara was walking them toward the back of the quarters, where the bedroll had been set up. Tightening her grip on those shoulders, she prayed silently that Missandei did not fall asleep in there, reading, as she did many nights instead of her own quarters. A kiss pressed against her mouth again, shook her from this thought process, and frankly at this point she wasn’t sure she had enough decency left to care.

 

Yara deposited Daenerys on the featherbed, moving aside the linens in order to have the room to properly touch her. She started with the sandals that laced all the way up the Targaryen’s mid-calf, wishing for a moment she possessed the nimble quality that had just been shown to her breastplate. She had encountered these straps before, but never much regarded their wearer, instead cutting or ripping them off after they grew to be taxing. But this was different. This required patience. With some effort, and perhaps by grace of the gods Yara did not pray to, she got them off, pulling Daenerys down by her now bare ankles.

 

Daenerys plucked and pushed up on the tunic that Yara wore, and without much resistance, removed it from her bedmate before pulling a bare torso atop her. Her fingertips ran over the scarred skin of Yara’s back; angry, darkened lines over shoulders, along ribs, visible even with the singular lamp lit in the room. She studied this while Yara worked at the cinch around her waist, and soon began unwinding the gauzy fabric off her body. Nudity never bothered Daenerys, at least not after her time with the Dothraki, and so she only felt fully and beautifully exposed to Yara.

 

“I am as jagged as that map,” Yara regarded the touches as she reached down to free herself of her own trousers, kicking them away with some effort before regaining her position above her counterpart, supporting her weight on her hands as she looked down at the beauty beneath her.

 

“Thankfully,” Daenerys replied automatically, and she felt Yara’s lips press against the side of her neck, the smoothness of her body flush against hers, eliciting a moan which quickly turned into a gasp as the Greyjoy’s teeth found purchase near her pulse point. Daenerys wrapped herself around the body on top of her, finding the feeling of Yara’s skin, the musculature beneath it, to be invigorating in its own right. She couldn’t stop touching Yara, raking along her curves, over her backside, the sides of her breasts- whatever she could get her hands on.

 

“I’ve been thinking about this a great while, your grace,” Yara admitted as she descended from Daenerys’ neck, to her shoulders, along the front of her chest. She stopped just above those perfect breasts, humming in gratitude as she bowed her head forward, wrapping her lips around a pert nipple, suckling slightly, never losing contact with the Targaryen in some way. Her hands went from grazing those sides to pulling eagerly at Daenerys’ hips again, dragging down along those gorgeous thighs. Yara had no idea why she felt the need to narrate her thoughts and feelings. Truly, this was not her ordinary procession. But then again, the woman beneath her was not ordinary either.

 

Daenerys arched her back when she felt Yara’s hips meet her own. Driven by need, and using all of her might, she caught Yara in a particularly vulnerable position and possessively rolled the Greyjoy woman onto her back. With legs anchoring the taller woman, Daenerys pinned Yara’s wrists above her head.

 

“Do you think you can hold me here?” Yara said after an abrupt clap of surprised laughter. “Or should I say, for how long?”

 

Daenerys was determined to hold this position for as long as she could, distributing her weight to anchor the woman who, undoubtedly, would not be kept like this for long. She smiled as a response, focusing her energy on keeping Yara beneath her, despite how much she was shaking with both desire and effort.

 

“Silent now, hmm?” Yara said as she strained against Daenerys’ hands, surprised at her strength as well but only momentarily, remembering who this woman was. “Fortunately for you, my queen, I have had a lot of practice wriggling out from beneath situations far worse than this. But I’ll humor you.”

 

Daenerys wanted to give in then, roll over and let her captured lover take her in whatever way she wanted. Instead she wrangled a thigh between them, meeting Yara’s sex. The wetness pooled there, stealing breath from the Targaryen’s lungs. It had been a long time since she felt that, and so much of it, from a bedmate.

 

Yara’s head tipped back, brows knitting again. Her hips met Daenerys’ thrusts, and she let out a low moan. She was aroused; so much so that sliding against the other woman’s thigh was almost effortless. Realizing rapidly that she could likely orgasm this way, and much too soon, she shook herself of her captivity and pushed up on Daenerys’ body, flipping her as suddenly as she had been flipped.

 

The silver-tressed woman took hold of Yara’s hand, and slid it between their bodies, no longer in the mood to tease. This was a need, not a want. She pressed insistently against her own sex with Yara’s digits, manipulating it so that she could find pleasure, moments of relief that her body was screaming for.

 

It wasn’t coy, any longer, and Yara didn’t need that either. Something had snapped in her; between the feel of this woman, the scent of her arousal, the small teasing taste she had of her. Yara pushed Daenerys’ knees apart, thighs slick, indiscernible to whose body had caused it. She steadied herself with a breath, hooking her arms underneath Daenerys’ knees, wrenching her forward to taste the woman beneath her, holding her in place. Her tongue lapped insistently at the arousal there, purposefully and teasingly holding off on paying much attention to Daenerys’ clit, wanting it to be an unbearable build up that only she could remedy.

 

Daenerys bit the palm of her own hand to keep her sounds to a minimum, sweat beading at her hairline with effort, between her shoulders, rolling in droplets between her breasts. She made the mistake of glancing downward, where Yara’s tongue worked between her folds, eyes closed in concentration. The sight was dizzying and caused her to cry out sharply. She feared then that she might be so loud at her climax, that it would wake the rest of the inhabitants of this ship, and maybe other ships in the fleet if she were not careful. A ragged “Yara” left her throat, her free hand winding at the back of the Greyjoy’s head, tangling in her hair again. So the fear of waking others did not stop her pursuit of pleasure, clearly.

 

Yara’s fingertips dug into the sides of Daenerys’ ass, knowing there would be bruises tomorrow, delighting in this, and pulling her close like this was her last endeavor of this nature. She drank her in, savagely licking, and sucking, feeling that familiar tremble from the woman below her. She couldn't get enough of it. But she needed more. She needed to see, to know how the woman looked when she came apart. Disengaging, much to her counterpart’s chagrin, Yara sat up in in the bed, legs parting to allow for a change in position. “I want you to come like this…” She tugged Daenerys into her lap. “On top of me.”

 

Those white-blonde locks had unwound from their braids, spilling over her shoulders. Daenerys panted as she straddled Yara’s lap again, anticipating the feeling of her fingers, gasping as they entered her, the fullness making her cry out again. Hands on Yara’s shoulders, Daenerys met the eyes in front of her, hips bucking against the fullness. She could barely get a grip on the Greyjoy’s shoulders, both bodies glistening with so much sweat.

 

“I want to see your face when you unravel,” Yara said breathlessly, her thumb grinding against Daenerys’ clit as she drove her fingers deeper inside. “I want you to speak my name.”

 

“Y-Yara,” Daenerys cried, trying to keep her sounds down but finding it impossible. She had lost her resolve at this point, bouncing on the fingers beneath her. It was all so much, the penetration, the stimulation to her clit, coupled with the build up that had lead them here. Her breaths came in short gasps as she ground her hips against Yara’s hand, the thrusts so deliciously rough. “Yara, please.”

 

Yara could reach her own like this, watching Daenery’s face change, pinched in pleasure, listening to the way her name sounded dripping with desire. Feeling the other woman grind adamantly against her hand, occasionally enough to cause an errant rub to her own sex, brought about her own throbbing need for release. She had almost forgotten about her pleasure at this point, focusing so solely on making this queen reach her brink. Her motions became even more uninhibited; the tightening of the walls around her fingers signaling it was not long at all. If Yara had it her way, they would continue this well into the morning, but the look on the Targaryen’s face, the flush in her cheeks made Yara believe that if she had never had another woman abed, this would be enough. Daenerys was not a salt wife, someone to use and dispose. She was much more than that.

 

Daenerys bit her own lip, pushing on Yara’s shoulders until the Greyjoy was prone, hands pressed firmly against her breasts, never losing the rhythmic rocking, pushing, pumping...fucking. She felt her orgasm coming, leaning her body back in order to rub at her own clit while Yara’s fingers never ceased.

 

Smiling, the brunette shook her head slightly. Daenerys taking matters into her own hands was not surprising. With any other woman, she would have stopped, but she enjoyed this sight. Pace quickening on her fingers, listening to the sounds gain volume. Seconds away. “You’re so close to it, your grace.”

 

Nodding swiftly, absently, Daenerys’ attentions focused elsewhere. Fingertips circled her own clit, the feeling bursting in in her belly first, trickling down to her sex before she released, pulling the fabric of her discarded dress to her mouth to scream into it, hips continuing to roll despite the climax.  
  
Yara’s pace slowed, but did not stop, curving her fingers just enough to cause Daenerys to cry out once more. Oh how she wished they were elsewhere and that scream could have pierced the night air. It didn’t matter though; it was enough to want to start this all over again.

  
“Gods, woman,” the one on top spoke, smiling as she put a hand on Yara’s wrist, gently guiding those fingers away. “You’ll assuredly kill me.”

 

“I get carried away, your grace…” Yara grinned earnestly, hands settling on the outside of Daenerys’ thighs. “You would too if you saw what I saw.”

 

Daenerys wasted no time in dropping beside Yara, turning so that her body faced hers, pressing against it. “I see a queen of the seas,” her fingers dragged between the other’s breasts, stopping to pay homage to the supple flesh, teasing a nipple until it strained even more than it had. “One who made me see a night full of stars just now.”

 

Yara smiled again, softly, assuming their evening had finished, allowing her eyes to drift closed out of comfort, a rare moment of peace. Her arm wound around the smaller woman, wanting to protect her now more than ever. The sound of Daenerys’ breathing, even and calm, lulled Yara into a sense of security. She felt Daenerys get up off the bed and assumed she would be checking for the company she kept. Making sure her trusted friends were not nearby, investigating the noise. She dozed then for what felt like eons. The feeling of softness against her skin woke her up, and she opened her eyes, craning her neck to find Daenerys kneeling beside her, tying her wrists above her head. She reacted with enough time to bring the binds back down, tugging each wrist fruitlessly in an attempt to pry them free.

 

“I tie a very strong knot, so don’t waste your time,” the kneeling woman smiled. “I was far too wrapped up in our activities earlier to keep to my resolve.” Daenerys pulled either side of the fabric. Yara recognized it as the cinch that had accented Daenerys’ gown, the same one she had unwrapped like a gift.

 

Yara eyed the woman, who she knew meant her declaration very seriously. Testing the binds, the Greyjoy realized there really was no escaping it, at least not easily. Her breath felt ragged in her chest again, and despite feeling wholly exposed to a level of madness, she was excited. There was no escaping that, either.

 

Sitting back on her haunches, Daenerys produced a quill pen, the plume bigger than that of a ravens’ - grey and white striped all the way down. Yara didn’t recognize the bird, but she didn’t care to at this moment. “Planning to annotate the evening?”

 

“Hardly,” the other woman scoffed, stroking the softness of the feather in between her fingers. “Have you ever had to wait for a woman, Yara?”  


“Aye, plenty, your grace,” Yara smirked. “I am awaiting you right now.”  
  
“No, I don’t think you have. I believe you are used to getting what you want when you want it,” Daenerys smiled, twirling the quill, touching the tip of it to one of her own fingers.

 

“Are you going to pen it down, m’lady? What are you doing with that?” Deep down Yara knew, but she wanted the affirmation.

 

“It’s more of a show, than a tell,” Daenerys grinned as she lifted her hand forward, sliding the soft point of the top of the plume against Yara’s neck, tracing the hollow of her throat, and along the jut of her collarbone.

 

Yara stirred, but remained strong, more tickled than anything else. She could get through this, she reasoned, if it meant Daenerys would reward her at the end. She had been through far worse for far less. Feeling the feather descend to her chest, she kept her eyes on the woman holding it. Losing her breath when it encircled a nipple, Yara squirmed without realizing she was moving until she noted how positively Daenerys delighted at her tremors.

 

Daenerys straddled the hips she had grown so fond of, watching Yara’s expression change to pleading need as the reminders of their earlier encounter still remained between her thighs. She knew Yara could feel it, and it was fueling the need. The feather skirted along scarred skin, across her ribcage, down the curves of her hips.

 

“Do you want to touch me again?” Daenerys murmured as she brought the feather along Yara’s stomach, stopping to drag it over her own thighs. “It’s a shame if you do. It seems you are tied up at the moment.”

 

Yara couldn’t help but laugh at how smug Daenerys looked, how she noticed that perhaps the snark of Tyrion had been rubbing off on the woman at the silly joke. The thought was fleeting however as she felt the feather descend into her navel, encircling it. Biting her lip, her body arched, hips driving upward as she felt Daenerys’ slickness again.

 

“Your grace, this is a cruel trick,” she fussed, wrists working to try and free herself from her binds.

 

“I assure you it’s worth the wait,” the Targaryen replied.

 

“So you keep mentioning,” Yara said, frustrated, watching as Daenerys moved off of her once more, bringing that damned feather with her.

 

“Have I yet been wrong?” Daenerys asked as she moved the feather from hand to hand.

 

Yara didn’t answer, instead craned her neck to watch the plume dance over her hips again, paint along the tops of her thighs. Her muscles twitched embarrassingly at the ghosts of touches, and she tried to free her wrists, to no avail. “No,” she finally managed after struggling. “You have not.”

 

Daenerys took the time to brush the feather’s tip along the woman’s inner thighs, to her knees. She watched with pleasure as Yara’s calf muscles tensed, releasing when she did. She purposely avoided Yara’s sex, getting teasingly close to it with the feather before pulling away.

 

Yara gasped as the feather made contact so close to her desire, mere centimeters away that might have been miles. “Daenerys,” she said, breathlessly. “I could untie these binds with my teeth.”

 

“I would not recommend that, Yara,” Daenerys admonished. “I will stop.”

 

Yara felt desperate in that moment, needing release from her counterpart. “You don’t wish for me to touch you, your grace? That did not seem to be the case moments ago.”

 

Daenerys grinned at Yara, the feather’s tip sliding further up Yara’s inner thigh, until it flicked lightly over the woman’s sex, slowly dipping into arousal. “This moment is for you.”

 

Yara wasn't used to gentleness. This display of it was overwhelming her in more than just the physical. Daenerys had such a powerful presence that Yara was close to begging, something she was also not used to. She could overpower Daenerys, with her legs alone. She could toss the rightful queen, the one they had called Khaleesi, onto her back and get her to untie her hands. But there was something scintillating here. She sucked in a breath as the feather trailed down her legs, across the tops of her feet, before it was deposited beside her on the bed.

 

Now without a feather, Daenerys’ fingertips found purchase between Yara’s thighs, sliding expertly upward until they found the source of arousal. She exhaled through her nose at the feeling, circling her fingertips against that hardened bundle, feeling Yara twitch beneath her. Their eyes met once more, and something stirred within Daenerys, wicked and fierce. These dainty, sweet touches grew bolder as she drove two of her fingers inside of Yara, thrusting into her, never dropping her gaze. She wanted Yara to see her, to watch her. In turn, she wanted to watch the Greyjoy’s face when she came. With her left hand, she undid the ties that kept the wrists bound and welcomed the freed hands, reaching up to tangle in her hair, to pull her head in for a searing kiss.

 

Yara tightened her hand in those white-blonde locks, tongue driving into the mouth before her. She moaned into it, as Daenerys quickened her pace, adding another finger, pulling away only far enough to murmur, “You’re stronger than you look.”

 

“I have been told,” Daenerys breathed into Yara’s mouth, as she backed her thrusting with her hips, driving into Yara with enough effort to feel the prickle of sweat again.

 

Yara’s legs fell open as far as she could let them, desperate for the touch of the woman above her. Her hips had betrayed her at this point, bucking wildly into those touches, knowing that it was only a matter of moments until she would reach her pinnacle.

 

Daenerys could tell that Yara was close as well and instinctively moved to settle in between those srtong thighs, tongue gliding along until she replaced it with the same pattern her fingers had been on, flicking her eyes up to watch their brown counterparts. She was wet with effort; fingers, lips, chin. She enjoyed having Yara all over her, moaning at the thought of being able to pick up faint traces of her essence for the days to come.

 

With a hand grasping tight in those long, lustrous locks, Yara pushed Daenerys’ head closer to her sex, grinding her clit against the tongue assaulting it. Caring not for who was around, she moaned out in ecstasy, not bothering to stifle her sounds. It really was not her style. The sight of the woman, the feeling of her very talented tongue, coupled with their prior activities had her wound tightly. To the Greyjoy, it was almost laughable how quickly she was able to be brought to release by the woman beneath her. Even bucking through her climax, Yara felt Daenerys’ fingers push into her, milking her of every last second of bliss. She trembled afterward, body heavy, like her bones had been made from the wine she had sipped in plenty this evening.

 

Daenerys’ laps decreased in pressure and she gently removed her fingers, giving one last kiss to the woman’s sex. She sat up, demurely wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. That same gentle, but strong hand slid along Yara’s side, across her stomach, before she stretched out beside her, hooking a leg over Yara’s thighs. Her head settled on that strong chest, listening to the quickness of Yara’s heartbeat, mind racing through the multitude of things she had placed by the wayside in favor of enjoying the company of this woman this evening.

 

Yara said nothing, winding her arms around the Targaryen, fingertips grazing alabaster skin in nonsensical patterns. It was a moment of tenderness that was quite uncommon for the woman known for her iron will. Realistically, she would have dressed and left without much more than a swat across a backside and a lewd comment. But here she was, almost in disbelief of herself, but not complaining about it.

 

“Do you think the rest of the ship heard us?” Daenerys finally broke the silence, whispering.

 

Yara laughed at the whisper, finding it so oddly out of place in their uninhibited encounter. “Yes, I certainly do. I am sure that your Grey Worm came down here at some point, realized I wasn’t ravaging you, and went back above deck.”

 

Daenerys blushed for a moment, but smiled lasciviously at her companion. “Should this ever happen again, we will need to find ways to be more quiet.”

 

Yara smirked, sliding her hand down to that incredible backside to give it a squeeze. “When it happens again, my queen...when.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
